


Reciprocation

by surfgirl (verushka70)



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, Episode Related, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-04-08
Updated: 1999-04-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 05:19:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11141793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verushka70/pseuds/surfgirl
Summary: Why Fraser only clasped Ray's shoulder at the end of TLM, when Ray clearly needed so much more.





	Reciprocation

**Author's Note:**

> This story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). It has not been changed (nor will it be) on import to the AO3, except to more appropriately or descriptively tag, and to fix broken web links. Ever so grateful to [Open Doors](http://opendoors.transformativeworks.org/) and to [Speranza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speranza/pseuds/Speranza), for making the archive import to AO3 happen. TYK!

I should do more. I should do more than just clasp his shoulder. His  
shaking shoulder.

But I can not. Oh, physically I am capable of doing it. That is not the problem. 

Ray is just naturally warmer than I am. Like Ray Vecchio. They're both so easy with themselves and with others. Or so it seems to me. Both Ray and Ray can put their arm around someone and it is perfectly natural and unaffected. They have both done it to me. 

But that isn't me. 

I've wished so often that I could be like them. That I could be capable of that kind of warmth, that easy affection. It just doesn't feel right, though. Much of the time, it makes me uncomfortable to touch people without their express verbal permission. 

In some circumstances, I have done so, but only when I felt implicit permission was given by the person's actions towards me. By their overtures. But mostly they reach out to me. I don't reach out to them. Even if we've established a relationship wherein that is acceptable, rarely am I the outgoing one. 

I guess that might be because I'm never sure if it will be reciprocated. It's hard enough to reach out and touch, truly _touch_ another human, even with no desire for anything else on my part. I feel so... separate from others. I know that I am quite different from most people. That is hard enough to overcome -- that feeling of being separate, the fear that they would not want my contact. 

But if I were then rebuffed... No, that kind of pain is something I'd rather avoid. It's easier with people I don't know very well, or people I know I won't be seeing again, once the case is over. A moment of human to human contact, to let them know that someone is actually concerned about them _that_ I can do. 

But with someone I know and see regularly... The closer I am to them, the harder it is to physically reach out. As if my walls are higher with the people I care about the most, rather than with strangers. I guess being rebuffed by someone close to me would be rather more wounding than I am prepared to deal with. Especially with someone I might have to see every day for days upon days afterward. Whereas with strangers, it is much more easily shrugged off. 

Oh, I don't think of being rebuffed as being slapped or pushed. One can be rebuffed in so many subtle ways. A stiffening of the body or of the limb under one's hand. A smile without the telltale crinkling at the corners of the eye. A slight shrinking back. These are all indications that the physical contact isn't wanted. 

It seems somehow I don't know "the language" of touch. I am afraid that I will inadvertently "say" the wrong thing because of this. I do not want to be misinterpreted, especially by the people I most care about. Therefore it's just best not to do it at all. 

And then, I am also afraid of what I might inadvertently reveal. I have kept it quiet and tamped it down, into a small, slightly annoying burden I carry everywhere I go with Ray. As such, it is easily kept hidden and Ray will never know. Were I to lower the walls around me, though, he might be more casually affectionate than he already is... more physical. I don't think I would handle an increase in physical affection from Ray very well. 

And I could not continue to hide my true feelings, I suspect. Even if I were capable of easy affection with Ray, Mrs. Kowalski, as Ray has said, didn't "raise no fool". One day, I wouldn't drop the mask over my expression fast enough... or my voice would tremble... or my hand would shake. 

Ray is quite adept at sizing up physical cues. And if he thought anything was up he'd never let it go. Not until he knew "what was up". So I maintain my detachment and seeming aloofness. 

It's just as well. I don't know how to do anything else anymore. Even if I did, I can't risk Ray finding out how I really feel. 

I'd rather keep that to myself. There's no need for him to ever know. 

Not because I think Ray would change his entire attitude towards me. He very well might, though... probably for the worse. 

No, because I can not conceive of him ever reciprocating the feeling. 

Better to say nothing. I've hid everything quite well. I am quite sure no one knows. Especially not Ray. 

Occasionally certain other people can detect things in me, when they choose to be so observant. Francesca, for example, is as shrewd as any detective might be in an interview with a suspect. I suppose this is borne of her constant vigilance, her eternal hope to see more than a brotherly fondness and respect in my actions towards her. But even Francesca, I am sure, is unaware. Possibly because we rarely see what we don't want to see... 

Ray may suspect something. But then, he has hardly been as casual and flippant with me since the Great Lakes freighter escapade, as he was before. When I stop to think about it, he's been much more... intense... with me since that time. I'm glad neither of us took the transfers we were offered. 

Ray has certainly noticed what few dalliances with women I've had since I've known him. He hasn't been quite as shrewd as Francesca might have been, under the same circumstances. Still, I was touched by his concern that Denny Scarpa was "reeling me in", as he would say. His actions when Quinn and I were being held hostage quite surprised me. Reckless as they might have been crashing through a window on a motorcycle isn't quite the same as an organized siege by a SWAT team I was more moved than I could reveal. 

But in some ways, that made things more difficult for me, though I'll be eternally grateful. It sparked that dim hope in me again, the tiny flame for Ray, which I keep trying to douse, but which stays lit, no matter how much cold water is thrown upon it. But it also raised the opposite possibility: that perhaps Ray thinks he "owes me" for saving his life on the Great Lakes freighter when we were trapped inside and she was sinking fast. That he somehow will always be trying to repay that "debt". I will probably never know which it really is. 

It all comes back to that, it always does -- that life-saving technique. The buddy breathing. I didn't think it would affect anything. Actually, I didn't think at all. I thought he was drowning -- he very nearly did so I acted without thinking. I did what I had to do in order to save him. I would have done anything to make sure Ray was all right. 

I had no idea it would stick in my thoughts like those burrs that Dief gets when he runs through the woods. It was all I could do the next couple of weeks to keep my eyes open and see what was in front of me, instead of what I wanted to see. Thoughts of the buddy breathing worked their way deeper into my mind, tangled themselves into my everyday waking moments. And my dreams at night. My brain, unfettered in sleep, would attach wild significance to the act, would enact alternate endings, embellished scenarios. And these would invade my conscious thoughts without warning, during the day. Often while I was with Ray. 

How, I wondered, how could I be so low, as to take advantage of Ray when he was at his weakest and most vulnerable? How could I take pleasure from something that was as necessary as my own breathing giving breath to Ray? 

And yet I had. It was something to be savored slowly, in those last hazy moments before dropping off into sleep. Even if accompanied by great amounts of guilt. 

Since then, though, I have reached some conclusions. One, I am overreacting. Two, I didn't really take advantage of Ray when we did the buddy breathing. I did it exactly by the book. Nothing untoward happened. Nothing inappropriate occurred. Three, if I had not done it, Ray would most likely have drowned. These few points eased my guilt. Oh, I still feel guilty about savoring the memories, about embellishing them. But that's not nearly as bad as my fear that I had somehow broken my own code of honor, that I had used someone, used a situation, unnecessarily and for my own pleasure or gain. 

I think what made me worry that I'd somehow taken advantage of him was Ray's reaction. "So, like, nothing's changed between us?" he asked. 

That he would say that made me wonder... what was he thinking? What did I do? 

But I hadn't done anything, of course. At the time, I didn't even spare a thought to doing anything but getting breath in Ray's body and getting him out of there. 

How it haunted me the next few weeks, though. It was all I could do to suppress the waking thoughts of what that would have been like, but with Ray dry and on land. The thought of how that fine, spiky hair would feel under my hands... how his lips would feel, warm and dry, until they parted and revealed the moisture inside them... The possibility that the yielding of his body was from a reciprocated desire, not from being close to passing out for lack of air. 

These thoughts were banished eventually. They only come up at night, before sleep claims me. Or sometimes at inappropriate moments like this one. 

Stop, Benton, just stop. Ray needs you now. He might need more from you than just a shoulder clasp while he's falling apart. 

"It's all right, Ray. It's all right. It all turned out all right. ...I know you meant to do the right thing, and we did. You mustn't blame yourself. What's done is done. Let's be grateful that it turned out as it did. There is justice and charity in this world. ...No, no, it wasn't your fault. How could you have known? As you say, you were a rookie. The corruption you didn't know... 

"Of _course_ you could have done it without me, Ray! ....Well, I guess I helped somewhat. But it was your decision. Your motivation that saw all of this through. ....Yes, yes it was. ...No, Ray, I was merely trying to be your partner. Trying to be supportive. ...Well, I know, but how can you expect me to " 

Ooof. He's on me. Oh, dear. Ray Kowalski sobbing wretchedly in my stiff arms. 

I shouldn't be so stiff. Wasn't I just thinking how indicative of a rebuff such stiffness is? I can't be this stiff, unyielding piece of wood. What he needs I'm such an idiot isn't man to man talk. He simply needs a hug. That physical reassurance. But in this case, I'm not stiff because this is unwanted attention or physical contact. 

No, I am stiff because I have armoured myself against this _wanted_ physical contact. So that I won't like it too much. So that I won't hold him too long. So that I won't reveal how I really feel. 

Right now, fortunately, I don't have to worry much about becoming aroused or even simply hopeful. This isn't about anything but Ray's need for contact right now, so it's "safe". I can do this. I can relax and loosen up. I can hold him and pat his back. 

I'm afraid the shoulder of my jacket is getting rather... well, tears and mucous will come out in the wash. I am patting his back and holding him to me. It is ...well, under other circumstances, which will never happen, it would be... wonderful. But now it's just Ray needing me. He is crushed and spent and relieved and sickened at the close call of Beth Botrelle's last minute stay of execution. And he is miserable with despising himself for not figuring the case out years ago when it happened, resulting in her conviction and death sentence. And very nearly her death. 

And he needs me to hug him back and tell him soothing things and calm him. And that's fine. If this is all that shall ever come my way with Ray, that's fine. Right now, I am allowed to hold him and I take no advantage of this. I give what he needs right now. What I need doesn't matter. This is simply for Ray. 

Hopefully it will help him see that it wasn't his fault, that he couldn't control all aspects of the investigation, that he did his job to the best of his ability. And this is to provide those reassurances with the much more tangible reassurance of a hug. A kind of intimate but not sexual contact, a human-to-human expression of caring and comfort, which goes beyond words. A simple physical "I am here" which communicates that I care about him, want to comfort him, and do not think he is the terrible person that _he_ thinks he is. 

Tonight, before I fall asleep, long moments in the dark will be spent going over and over this in my mind. Guilt will seep in to my conscious mind, even as my unconscious mind recalls these moments and embellishes them with a romantic aggression I do not possess, a reciprocal response Ray would never have, and an exciting sensuality which is not happening. Which is not going to happen. Not now, not ever. And which I have come to accept. 

But these moments will stay indelibly imprinted on my mind. The simultaneous pleasure and torture of recalling and adding fantasy elements to them \-- will occupy my mind for many nights to come. Eventually the guilt or the sorrow of knowing that reality will never match my imaginings \-- will slowly kill the pleasure associated with these moments and my later imaginings. And I will stop thinking about these moments except in fleeting wistful seconds, often when Ray and I are together. 

I have found out, the hard way, that trying _not_ to think of something virtually guarantees that one _will_ think of nothing else! In testing the causal relationship, I have axiomatically determined that if I think about something constantly, think about it very thoroughly, think it "out" of my system, then the thought loses its power to trouble me. This at least has given my conscience enough of a rationale to indulge such thoughts and flights of fancy without too much guilt, initially. Over time this strange rule of thought, and its axiom, seem to have been proven true. The thoughts of Ray bother me much less. 

This will, of course, be the crutch of justification I need to guiltlessly (for the most part) indulge thoughts of what is and is not happening here in Ray's car right now, while I am waiting for sleep to come in my bedroll tonight. 

"It's okay now, Ray. It is all right. She's safe. She didn't die. Even if she... Ray, it wasn't your fault. ...No, it wasn't. You did your best. That was all you could do. The wrongful conviction, the sentence you had nothing to do with that. ...No. You know that. What new officer would challenge the authority of a detective or state's attorney? 

"Ray, it is a testament to your conscience, to your intuition, that you _knew_ something wasn't right, that something was missing. And you made up your mind to chase down the last detail that was unsettling you freeing an innocent woman in the process. ...Yes. It was you, Ray. Not me. I just helped. But I have a feeling that even if I hadn't been around if I hadn't been there to help you you would have doggedly investigated on your own. ...I know you. And I know the kind of man you are." 

There. That set him back on his feet, so to speak he's back on his side of the car now. I feel terrible, though. Not for myself, but for him. He blames himself so terribly for all of this. But Beth Botrelle was convicted and sentenced to death because of another man's actions. Not Ray's. 

I tell him how much I wish I could make him believe it was not his fault. I tell him I wish I could take away his terrible anguish. 

"Ray, what are you, what are you doing" 

Oh, my. Oh, dear. Oh... 

His hands are on me. Slowing moving their grip up my jacket... Pulling me close. And his mouth... his mouth is 

They are warm and dry, his lips... but the tip of his tongue is wet and warm. And mine, mine is touching his, and then II just slightly suck the tip of his tongue into my mouth. And then he is madly kissing me and I am fiercely responding. 

Oh, dear. This is just what I feared! One touch, one taste, and I can'twell, if I'm honest, I don't _want_ to stop this. But truthfully, I could not stop now if I wanted to, which is another failure on my part. It is as if, once my walls are breached, I completely lack the will to set an end point, a stopping point, a limit beyond which things will _not_ go. I only know what I want... and that is usually 'more'. 

Because I am so weak, it falls upon the other person to stop it, or let it continue -- I have no will to do anything but reciprocate. Or rather, I _have_ the will... the spirit, as they say, is willing, but the _flesh_ is weak... (I have gotten myself into trouble this way before. That's why I try to avoid this sort of thing whenever possible!) But Ray is in no state for such decision-making. Oh, dear! I should only be doing what _he_ needs, not what _I_ want. I should control myself! But I can't. It is as if the floodgates have opened. 

I must remember, this is supposed to be about what Ray needs from me, as a friend. 

But his mouth is all over mine. His hands move on me. From the back of my head to my shoulders, my chest. Downward to my belly and beyond... where I can not hide my response... Now he knows what he does to me... what he _is_ doing to me... 

Just what does he need right now? To quell this anguish? He probably does not need to be pushed away (as if I were capable of doing so!). But I don't think I am making an excuse for why I am allowing this to happen... it follows that, if he started it, he must have thought he wanted or needed this... 

Abruptly he pulls away. He passes his hands over his face and into his hair, making it stick up more than usual. I'm afraid I'm speechless and feeling rather plastered to the seat... I can only stare at him. 

The GTO's engine rumbles to life. He hasn't said a word. He is still sniffling. He's quiet now. But purposeful. 

He reaches across the front seat and grasps my wrist. He looks me in the eye. His eyes seem so big. Perhaps because it's mostly dark in the car and his pupils are huge. But that intensity he's had since our escapade on the Great Lakes freighter... He's looking at me with that same intensity... only more. 

He squeezes my wrist. Then he lets go, puts the car in drive, and we are moving. 

I haven't said anything since... since my last words to comfort him. 

I hesitate to speak now. Words may not change anything but then communication is so important but then I'm not exactly a forthcoming person myself if I could even _be_ forthcoming about something I've been trying to hide and deny for months 

But he's forthcoming. Forthcoming with his hands. Even while driving. 

Oh, thank God. I need do nothing more than accept his touch and reciprocate. I can not help responding, after all this time, after all my secret wanton thoughts of him. But I can hardly move. I feel paralyzed, as if I can't move, or if I can, it would be slowly and with great effort, as if I were moving underwater. Ray is doing the moving for both of us. 

I never expected him to have the gentle sensuality to brush the backs of his knuckles against my cheek... repeatedly. I never expected he might take my hand and slowly kiss the small web of skin between each finger, where the fingers join the hand. To kiss my palm. 

The hair is standing up on the back of my neck. In a peculiarly pleasant yet terrifying way. 

Nor would I have believed anyone who might have predicted that one day, Ray Kowalski would be gently mouthing just the tips of my fingers. His saliva and his tongue are warm. When removed from his mouth, the evaporation of his saliva quickly cools each fingertip. 

It's as if my hand isn't even my own. And my voice... I'm not even in control of that. 

I've been whispering his name, slowly, like a mantra, since he brushed my cheek with his knuckles. Since he took my hand and softly kissed and licked the skin between my fingers. The gooseflesh started on my wrists and moved all the way up my arms and across my back. It is prickly and yet pleasant. I can hardly believe how instantaneously I have become aroused. And yet, of course, this makes perfect sense, as unaccustomed as I am to this sort of thing. 

As we sit at a traffic light now, he leans over just slightly, and puts his palm on my cheek. His fingers splay across my jaw, my ear. He strokes his thumb across my cheekbone. Strokes his thumb across my trembling lips, feather-light. Over and over. I can feel his callused thumb stroking slowly and delicately across my mouth. 

His eyes, dark and hungry, look me full in the face. He looks tired, with dark circles under his eyes. He blinks slowly, the long fringe of his lashes moving as if he is drunk... or sleepy. Or just in shock. His hair is haphazardly sticking up in some places, lying down in others. But he also looks defiant. And yet also scared. 

What must I look like to him? I probably look terrified. I hope I look happy. 

He does not, as I expect, try to put his thumb in my mouth. Just keeps stroking it, slowly and softly, across my lips. His thumb is dry. So are my lips. They quiver under his thumb. Every once in a while they whisper his name. Not under my command, they purse...They try to catch his thumb with a kiss, to bring his thumb into my mouth because he hasn't already done it himself. 

His lips purse in a sympathetic reaction. His eyes are on my mouth now. His expression has softened. I see the tears start in his shining eyes, as he looks me in the eye again. But he doesn't cry, just focuses his gaze on my mouth again, and tugs my lower lip down slightly, as if to make me pout, parting my lips farther. He whispers one word. 

"Fraser." 

And then he swiftly glances at the light, which has turned green; glances at the rear view mirror, to see if anyone is behind us; and quickly draws his hand back to grip the steering wheel much more tightly than is necessary. 

The tires squeal and I am momentarily thrown back in the seat by the force of his acceleration. 

It seems, from the streets we are passing at a very rapid pace, that we are heading toward Ray's apartment. 

I feel a wild sense of seesawing, as if I were on a roller coaster. 

I can not control the quivering of my limbs or the heavy throbbing of my heart. 

Actually, strictly speaking, I suppose that isn't true. I have no doubt that I could bring these involuntary responses under control if I wanted to. 

I do not wish to do so.  
   
   
  

END  
   
   
  


End file.
